


The Beautiful People (Click)

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BROT3, Cannes, M/M, Millionaire Playboys, Modern AU, Private Eye, polo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7905586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt by FromPella in which she imagined Treville as a modern day private eye, hired by Milady de Winter to investigate her husband. Treville is my neo noir Bogart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beautiful People (Click)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChicotFP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChicotFP/gifts).



> The gorgeous artwork is by FromPella.

  


* * *

Here he is again, hiding in the shadows, eye fixed to the viewfinder as he takes frame after frame in order to capture every moment. A question hangs, in urgent need of an answer. Why is he still doing this?

Click.

Another. Another. Yet another photograph of his target. His favourite subject.

Click. Click. 

Stop.

 

\---

 

It had begun just six months earlier. Down to the last few decimal places of his overdraft, waiting for something big to come along and save him, Treville had tried not to seem overly eager when Anne de la Fère had walked into his world through the smoke stained office door, dressed like Joan Crawford and enthralling him with the saddest of stories. He’d heard it all before, but never from someone as beautiful as her.

“I think my husband is having an affair,” she’d said, dabbing away the tears. “We desperately want a child, but my gynaecologist tells me that there is nothing to be done and because of it we are drifting apart.” She hadn’t gone into specifics, but those green eyes had sparkled with sadness. “I love him so much, M Treville. I’d do anything to make him happy, but he’s rejected me and chooses to spend all of his time with his friends. They are inseparable as he and I once were.”

I no longer do marital cases, was the sentence on the tip of Treville's tongue, but a mental review of his finances made him think twice.

“I pray that I’m wrong,” she continued. “If you could just prove to me that Athos is loyal I know we’d have a chance at happiness. I would pay well. Extremely well.”

“You want photographs of his life?”

“Simply that,” said Anne. “Something to put my mind at rest.” She embellished her words with a wad of cash so large that Treville couldn’t take his eyes off it. Even if the notes were small he could still pay off his debts. The notes turned out to be of large denomination.

“Tell me about him,” he encouraged, pouring her a drink. “Tell me everything.”

 

\---

 

After this amount of time spent _almost_ in their company, Treville knows these four men all too well, often wishing that he had never laid eyes on them. Today he spies from above, watching as Aramis arrives at the café, hooking an arm around Athos’ neck then kissing him on the cheek and ruffling that silky hair. He’s the one who brings light to Athos’ eyes, making him smile when he is downhearted. 

Click. 

Porthos arrives next, the rock in Athos’ life. He is the steadying influence, stopping him from taking that extra drink and helping him home on the occasions he has been unable to do so. There is nothing untoward between them. They are the best of friends and as close as two men can be without fucking. Treville has gained access to a service room in an apartment block opposite that offers him a good vantage point of Athos’ bedroom and he knows all that goes on within its walls. His target is a celibate man, lonely except for the nights he sleeps tangled around Porthos and Aramis.

Click. Click.

D’Artagnan is younger than the rest, charming and boyishly handsome. He is new to the group and looks to their leader with a certain hunger in his eyes. An eternal student, now working towards a second masters, he is a protégé of Athos and as such has fallen under his spell. Treville understands this yearning and hates himself for doing so. What is this fascination he has with these men, with their endless amounts of money and delight in each other's company? Whatever the reason behind it, Treville longs to get closer.

Click. Click. Click.

 

\---

 

The pictures he takes could tell a false story and Treville is careful about which he chooses to show to his client. The others he keeps safely locked in his desk. 

“You’re telling me after all this time you have nothing on my husband?”

“I thought you’d be pleased.” Treville pulls back in surprise at her tone of voice. Gone are the sad eyes and the need for reassurance. He spreads out a fan of carefully selected photographs, depicting Athos at play with his friends.

“I am,” she replies. “But I struggle to believe it when he chooses not to live with me. What about his relationship with Ninon?”

Ninon de Larroque is Athos’ business partner. They gather rare and somewhat bizarre objets d'art, ranging from skeletal remains to doodlebug rocketry, selling it onwards to the calibre of collector who wouldn't consider the vulgarity of price.

“Purely work,” says Treville. “She’s been in Buenos Aires since I’ve been on the case. They’re not in any kind of a physical relationship.” They speak often though. He hears them when he dares to linger close by. Close enough to eavesdrop.

“Have you ever heard of an emotional affair?” Anne says, turning to him. “They can be just as damaging.”

“I see no evidence of any kind of affair,” he replies. “But if you would like to take this a stage further I could monitor his apartment. For an additional cost of course.”

“No,” she says with a huff of annoyance, spreading out the photographs and examining them in detail. “You’re certain he's not sleeping with Aramis or Porthos? They’re very close to him.”

Treville shakes his head. He has innocent pictures of all three of them in bed together, pictures that could easily be misconstrued in court. But he has no intention of handing those over. It's not reassurance she’s after. She is a liar and he’s sure of it.

“Is Athos bisexual?” he asks in an offhand manner.

“Yes,” she states. “He had a male lover before he met me. His tutor at Oxford, no less.” She cocks her head to one side and stares at Treville. “Are we finished do you think?”

The fat pay cheques for the last few months have turned his accounts around and he could quite happily keep stringing her along, but something about her bothers him intensely. “I’m certain there is nothing to find out,” he says truthfully. “Your husband sleeps with no one and is faithful to you.”

“Then this will be your final payment,” she says, handing him an envelope full of cash. “Thank you for your hard work, M Treville. It is good to know that Athos is not a cheat.” Her smile does not reach her eyes and leaving the photographs behind on the table, she sweeps out of the office, heels clipping across the tiled hallway.

With nothing better to do, Treville stashes most of the cash in his safe and slides a few notes into his wallet. Donning coat and hat, he leaves the building and heads to the harbour front café, to take pictures of the man who is his target no more.

 

\---

 

Snick.

It’s ten p.m. and Treville tidies up for the night, double latching the door and sliding the bolt home as an additional security measure. In this business you learn to take care of number one.

He’d spent the afternoon close to his prey, listening to the easy banter between the four friends and wishing that he was part of the group as he watched them leave the café together, pushing and shoving at each other playfully on their way to one of the legendary party yachts in the marina. 

As an entity, he should hate them--they are without doubt a gang of spoilt, rich pricks--but he could never hate Athos, his beautiful Athos, so quiet and sad when he thinks no one is looking.

Would the man drink too much tonight, Treville wonders. Would Porthos lug him home then undress him and hold his cock while he’s having a piss?

Biting at his lip, Treville unlocks a desk drawer, takes out a folder and begins at the beginning. 

As always the first photograph of the set takes his breath away. It’s in high resolution, twelve inches by ten, and he pins it up on the board in his study. He traces the image, wishing that Athos wasn’t wearing aviators, and when his forefinger touches the center point of those lips he sucks in a breath and fights off his sudden rush of desire.

The next picture is a profile shot. Athos has his head on Porthos' shoulder and in it they both look so young and full of hope. Treville thinks of an innocent student and his older professor. Was that story true, or was Mme de la Fère simply distorting the facts as she did with everything. 

If he were Athos’ tutor then he would have found him irresistible. How tempting it must have been to end earnest discussions with a series of slow kisses that would lead inexorably to bed. How easy to give in to that temptation.

He’s fully hard now and unzips in preparation. 

The next photograph is an innocent group shot of them sitting together on the harbour wall. Porthos has an arm tucked around Athos and Aramis. They’re leaning into him and Athos is smiling, carefree in the way that he only ever is when he’s surrounded by his friends. 

The love between them is real, thinks Treville. As romantic as any newlyweds. As trusting and honest as a long term relationship. Love is a word that he’s never found faith in. Something that's not existed in the dark corner of the world that he occupies. He’s slept around. Slid his dick into dozens of arses, but has never become a part of the person that he’s fucking. He touches Athos' face once more and hooks his erection from the slit of his boxers.

“I want you,” he groans through clenched teeth.

 

\---

 

With every intention of ending this strange obsession, even considering moving back to Gascony in order to do so, Treville attempts to stay away from Athos. Despite remaining physically absent, his fingers seek the man out, searching through records and databases to discover everything there is to know about him.

It turns out that Olivier Athos de la Fère has led far from a charmed life. He may have money, but Treville discovers that there is real reason for his air of melancholy. Reports reveal that he lost both parents and a brother during the Boxing Day tsunami in Thailand. What a Christmas that must have been. Treville, who over the years has grown to be a cold fish, is confused by his heart which aches in sympathy. Just months after the loss of his family Athos married Anne de Breuil, a fashion journalist who writes under the pseudonym of Milady de Winter. She is well known in her field, although perhaps not well regarded by those who know her best.

The society magazines hold archived photographs of a wedding that took place five years ago in Monte Carlo. It was a large and unwieldy affair with Athos lost at the epicentre and seeking out his friends. The part that interests Treville is the fleeting mention of a prenuptial agreement. It doesn't take him long to hunt down the details. Without a child or proof of adultery, divorce would leave Milady de Winter with nothing but that which she had brought into the marriage. Six months of knowing her have aroused Treville's suspicions. Has she truly been trying to get pregnant, or was that yet another lie? He will eventually discover the truth, although it may take some time.

Treville knows he must pull himself together and seek out some paid work, but his personal obsession with Athos is becoming more important to him than earning a living. There’s something about the wife that spooks him. Beneath that polished veneer she’s an ice queen. But is she cold enough to have Athos killed in order to inherit his substantial fortune? 

He checks his watch and puts on his usual armour of trench coat and trilby. This way he can pass by unnoticed. He’ll never be out of place in a town so pretentious, a shadow amongst shadows, lapping up information.

 

\---

 

Today the four young men are at the polo grounds in St Tropez, taking part in a derby match between local teams. This is a friendly rather than part of a tournament and there are only a few avid fans watching from the stands. Treville has dressed appropriately in quilted jacket and cap. It is yet another of his disguises, although he is beginning to think it unnecessary. He is so far beneath their glamour that they don’t even see him.

Leaning on the railings he watches them prepare, leading out ponies that are chuntering at the bit, ready to go into battle. Athos’ horse is a black gelding. He seems quieter than the rest and stands stoic beside his master. They are a matching pair and Treville takes out his camera, sneaking off a shot or two from a distance before approaching the pony lines.

“What have you been feeding that beast, d’Artagnan?” complains Aramis as he narrowly avoids getting bitten by sharp equine teeth. “He’s more of a menace than usual.”

“There there,” soothes d’Artagnan, stroking the pony's mane and feeding him a sugar lump. “He can’t help it. He’s a hot blooded Argentine.”

“Concentrate,” says Athos, mounting ready. “It’s time. All for one.”

“One for all,” the boys respond in chorus. The bantering ends and they're as serious now as if this were a cup match.

Athos is a consummate captain. Treville watches as he drives his team on, leading from the back with Porthos beside him, whilst Aramis and d’Artagnan embark on a full on assault. By the end of the third chukka they’re five ahead and unstoppable. 

Click.

Treville snaps off photographs as they return triumphant to the pony lines. Sweaty and mud streaked they might be, but they are ascendant in their beauty -- one above all others. The one who might be in danger.

“No paps,” frowns d’Artagnan, pushing Treville away with an open palm. 

“Sorry,” says Treville. He flashes a deftly forged press pass. “I work for Polo Magazine. I’ve been told to come here and get my eye in.”

“Be kind, d’Artagnan,” says Athos. “The man’s only doing his job.”

His smile is crooked and his eyes are a softer green up close. He welcomes Treville with a handshake. “I hope you like hotels. You’ll be doing a lot of travelling if you want to keep up with the top teams.” His smile turns to a grin. “Athos de la Fère. These idiots are Porthos and Aramis. The misery guts here is d’Artagnan.”

“Sod off. I’m only trying to look after you,” retorts the young man. “You know what the paparazzi are like. I’m going to the bar.”

He leaves in a foul temper and Treville wonders what’s irked him so badly.

“Don’t mind him,” says Athos, their hands still linked. “Tell me your name.”

“Jean. Jean Treville.” Treville basks in the warmth of that gaze. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“I’m sure I’ve seen you before in Cannes,” says Aramis and his head is cocked thoughtfully to one side. 

“Me too,” says Porthos, slightly more menacing in his delivery.

“I’ve been freelancing,” offers Treville. The Riviera is full of beautiful people. It’s a simple explanation.

“So you came here for the film festival and never left?” says Athos.

Treville nods. Athos is half right. His first private eye job, after leaving the army, was working for a husband who wanted to prove that his movie star wife was a lesbian. It turned out that she was just bored of being married. The case ended badly for his client, but Treville still got paid an exorbitant fee. Cannes was for the rich and he wanted a slice of the action.

“Will you join us for a drink?”

The invitation from Athos comes as a surprise and Treville’s heart flutters in his chest. “I’d like that very much,” he replies. “Thank you.”

“We need to get changed first,” says Porthos in a gruff voice. “Just because d'Art doesn’t give a fuck about personal hygiene doesn’t mean I’m going to sit in the bar all night stinking like a stable rat.”

“Showers it is.” Athos smiles at Treville. “Come with us by all means, but don’t let your lens get too steamed up.” 

Treville follows them obediently into the locker room, wondering what exactly is going on. Is this flirting? He doesn't know Athos well enough to be sure, but it feels like it. Directly in front of him, Porthos and Aramis exchange telling glances. It seems that Milady wasn’t lying about _everything_ to do with her husband. 

Minutes later Athos returns from the shower, a towel tucked around his waist, and Treville fights hard to suppress a sudden intake of breath. His camera twitches eagerly in his fingers. He’d do anything to have this particular memory frozen as a moment in time. His eagerness increases tenfold when that towel is removed for the purpose of drying.

“Do you like what you see?” smirks Athos as he brushes up close, clothed now but still as alluring.

“I like,” replies Treville in a low voice. “I like very much indeed.” His words are overly loud in his head. He’s become a casual pick up and is enjoying every minute of it. “Is the polo club your usual hunting ground?”

“Usual makes it sound as if it’s a frequent thing,” says Athos.

He's standing so close now that Treville can feel his breath.

“It’s not something I do often, but the people here are discreet and if I see someone I like and that someone likes me, well...” Athos’ eyes crease prettily when he smiles. “Shall we go upstairs?”

To be led to a first floor suite with all around them aware that they are going there solely to fuck is possibly the most erotic experience of Treville's life. 

“This is not the start of a relationship,” says Athos as soon as the door closes. He takes off his jacket and throws it on a chair. “This is sex. I want you. You want me. We’ll spend an enjoyable afternoon fucking and then go our separate ways.”

They’re kissing before Treville has time to respond. Athos’ tongue explores his mouth, hot and demanding. He in turn fumbles with the buttons on Athos’ shirt and searches out that taut body beneath. Athos is wiry and strong. He’s fit from riding and tanned from the South of France sun, shaven and manicured as is the dress code for all millionaire playboys. He smells of old money and damn good sex and the fact that he wants Treville is as astonishing as it is arousing. What could he possibly see in a battered old thing like him?

“Take off your clothes.” 

Treville strips, feeling every inch the fraud. He doesn't belong in this place, even as a convenient lay.

Athos’ eyes rake over him. “You have scars.”

“I was in the army until I was pensioned out.” Treville's left hand aromatically comes to rest over the jagged wound on his thigh. “IED in Afghanistan.”

“Brave man,” says Athos, undressing to naked and then stepping in close. “Brave men turn me on.”

His cock is at full erection, proving his point, and Treville reaches down to stroke it. He’s masturbated over this fantasy many many times, but never thought he would stand a chance at experiencing the real thing. Inching closer he grasps them together, enjoying the sensation of dick rubbing against dick. He’d suck Athos off but hates the taste of rubber and is looking up to see what is expected of him when he recognises urgency in those clear, green eyes. “Bend over the bed,” he says with military brusqueness. “You need a fuck.”

The murmur of excitement is enough to tell Treville that he’s correct. Passing over lube and condoms, Athos spreads his legs and leans forward, bracing himself on the wooden cross strut.

Wet with slick Treville explores him, stretching him open, rubbing against his prostate and working him deep with his fingers. “Do you want my cock?”

“God yes,” moans Athos.

“Say it then or I'll come all over your arse.”

“I need you.” Athos begs so prettily that Treville shivers with the thrill. “I need you inside me. I need you now.”

Treville collects himself for a moment then skins on a condom. He presents the swollen knob to Athos’ hole and then thrusts in to the hilt, an act which elicits a groan of relief from both men. This is not making love. This is giving someone, this rich and melancholy boy, a royally good seeing to. He reaches around to stroke Athos off but his hand is batted away.

“Not yet. Too close.”

“Lie on the bed. Face up,” instructs Treville.

Rearing directly over him would be too intimate and so he kneels on the luxurious carpet, pulling Athos to him and fucking back inside that pliant body, able to see his face, but not close enough to fall any further. This is dangerous territory.

Danger or not, edging feeds the need for intimacy and unable to resist they lock together, face to face and kissing with an urgency that belies the casual nature of this liaison. 

Rolling them over, Athos climbs Treville and rides him, hand on his cock as he arches upwards and back, his muscles clamping vice like around Treville, bringing him off with a black out, white out blur as he follows on and comes hard, decorating Treville with his spunk.

“That was really good,” he says as he drapes over him exhausted. “You were right. I needed it. Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” replies Treville, knowing that he’s been dismissed.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t sleep well that night, in spite of the work out. Nerves build as he imagines Athos, the victim of a fake street robbery, lying in the gutter with a bullet through his head. He needs to get some information together fast or his suspicions may prove horribly true.

He ups his efforts in hunting down Milady's gynaecologist and a few days later his search is successful. Dr Lamay is a wealthy man, but an addiction to the roulette tables means that the bundle of Euros slips comfortably into his back pocket. They come from Treville's own safe. He can’t think of a better way to spend his money.

“Mme de Winter has been a patient of mine for years,” says Lamay. “I’ve done nothing more than the usual screenings and prescribed her contraceptives.” 

“Are there any circumstances in which you could foresee her going to another doctor in order to receive fertility treatment?” asks Treville.

“Not unless she wanted to throw her money away. She is able to have children. I know this as fact.”

Treville pushes for more information, but the doctor refuses to say anything else on the subject. It is enough to convince him that Milady is lying, but will it be enough for Athos? To take this to him, he will have to blow his cover.

In a rather ironic happenstance Treville finds the perfect excuse when indulging in his favourite hobby. Before now, he has focused solely on the main subject of the photographs. He still is, of course, but recent fears have expanded his perimeters. Faces recur, tall and handsome, olive dark and brown eyed. They’d go unnoticed as part of the elite, except that they are often to be found at the edges of the shots.

“You?” says Athos, raising an eyebrow as Treville makes brief contact with him in the harbour café.

“Come to my office,” he replies, handing Athos a business card. “I need to speak to you in private.”

Athos checks his Rolex. “One hour,” he says and swaggers back to the table.

Treville returns to a dingy lair and paces the floor in anticipation. 

Athos is predictably late. “A detective?” he accuses and then slams the door hard enough that the glass rattles.

This irascible side to his nature is a new source of temptation.

“My job is to keep people safe,” says Treville. He spreads out the pictures to prove his point. “These men are following you. Do you know them?”

Athos glares at him. “You want to know if they’re my lovers.”

Treville raises his voice just a little. “Do you know them?” Athos is the taller by an inch and yet he is able to face him down, fingernails digging into the palm of his hand. He’s not certain which of them initiates the kiss, but it’s essential, as greedy as the first time, tongues sliding, mouths conjoined. He unfastens Athos’ zip, shoves a hand unceremoniously inside the open fly and wraps his fingers around a cock that throbs against his skin.

Trousers come down and with a hand to the small of his back, Treville pushes Athos down over desk, wets him with spit and hurriedly tugs on a condom. The sex is as good as last time, brutal, rigorous with animal need, as papers fly everywhere and they come together in a coda of staccato grunts.

“I don’t do this,” says Athos, cleaning himself with a handkerchief and tidying his clothing.

“I beg to differ,” mutters Treville, intent on his own personal grooming.

Athos laughs. The sound is an unexpected bark of amusement and it’s out of place in this grimy little basement room. “I suppose you’re right,” he says, one side of his mouth still curling seductively upwards. “To answer your question, I don’t know either of those men.” Lighting two cigarettes he hands one to Treville. “But then I didn't know you until recently.”

“So you have no idea whether they have a connection to your wife?”

Athos taps his ash in a ceramic tray that’s been badly decorated with a transfer of the Arc de Triomphe. “My wife? What does she have to do with anything?” He turns and stares out of the window at the unprepossessing view of a back street rat run.

Treville inhales a sustaining mouthful of nicotine. “She hired me to find out whether you’ve been having an affair with anyone since you and she separated.”

Athos huffs out his second laugh of the day. It’s accompanied by a cloud of smoke. “Ironic,” he says. “Or perhaps convenient.”

“I no longer work for her,” Treville assures him. “I was not in her employ when we-” He searches for a suitable description and fails to find one.

“When we first fucked,” supplies Athos helpfully, stubbing out his cigarette. “There’s no need to be coy, man. We were both there when it happened.” He sits on the desk, the site of their most recent encounter, and floors Treville with a look. “So, if you weren’t working for Anne at the time, why then were you sneaking around after me at the polo club?”

Under the cover of smoke Treville can still taste his kisses. He opens a bottle of whiskey and pours a couple of fingers into two glasses, handing one over to Athos who takes it with a look of gratitude.

“Well? Are you going to answer my question?”

“I have reason to believe she wants you dead,” replies Treville. In the cold light of day it sounds ridiculous.

Athos concurs and laughs for a third time. “And what brought you to this melodramatic conclusion?” he asks, his lips curling with wry amusement.

“If she wishes to marry again she will have to divorce you, and because of the prenuptial agreement she will get nothing unless you have been unfaithful,” explains Treville. “She was hoping that I would present her with evidence.”

“And in a way you have,” says Athos. “Straight from the horse's mouth. Except that you say you're no longer working for her. Bad timing on her part.”

“Bad timing that has led her to plan B,” says Treville. His senses are full of Athos. He wants to strip him and marvel at that playboy body. He imagines him naked and kneeling at his feet. It’s an entrancing thought.

Athos smiles as if he can read his thoughts. “And plan B is to have me killed?”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

Athos stands up and saunters over. He brushes a finger across Treville’s cheekbone then follows the jawline in its entirety. Finally he cups his face. “Don’t obsess,” he says, smug in his knowledge. “It doesn’t become you.”

That said he turns exits the room leaving Treville in a state of pent up fury, tinged with the ugliness of unwanted arousal.

“Fuck you,” he mutters as he presses the heel of his hand to his crotch and then gives into temptation.

 

\---

 

And so Treville is back to the beginning, hiding in the shadows, taking photographs and gathering evidence. As much as he has grown to loathe this arrogant prick, he is still determined to keep him safe.

It’s autumn and an alien sea fog has descended across the south coast, leaving Cannes blanketed in a murky yellow mist. It's hard to keep track of what is going on and Treville fights to stay close to his prey. Everyone is twitchy. France is on a high state of alert following recent terrorist incidents and this creates its own self perpetuating cycle of fear. Trust is now a thing of the past, the exception being that bond which exists between four beautiful young men who spend virtually all their time in each other's company.

Treville has not spoken to Athos since the day he walked out of his office. Each is aware of the other’s presence, but that is the extent of their relationship. Back down to the dregs of his bank account he behaves like a fool, only taking on work that allows him to stay in Cannes so that he can keep track of Athos at all times. The photographic evidence proves that the man is still being followed. The faces are a constant presence in the background and a strike is inevitable.

When it happens, Treville is prepared. There is a small explosion in the café quarter which causes huge confusion. He spots the men, potentially moving in for the kill, and bundles Athos away from harm, an arm wrapped snug around his waist as he leads him from the scene of devastation.

Athos stops and takes out his mobile phone, but Treville grabs it and dumps it in a nearby rubbish bin. “Stupid,” he says. “How do you think they’ve been tracing you? This way. Quickly. Stop fucking around.”

This is a smoke screen. Soon they'll be here and Athos will become another victim of these uncertain times. 

“Where?” says Athos, staring at him. Behind a curtain of fear there is trust.

“Only Porthos and Aramis know of any connection between us,” says Treville. “And I doubt they remember my name. My place will be safe enough for now until we can get you out of Cannes.”

“I have a home near Paris,” says Athos. 

“One that I'm sure your wife is aware of,” says Treville, wondering at his innocence.

“No one knows of it.” Athos looks away. “It was a holiday home. It has been shut up since.” He stumbles on the uneven paving. “For years.”

Treville can feel the waves of misery and fear. He must look after Athos at all costs. “This way,” he says, leading him up the steps of his building.

The apartment is nothing to be proud of, but it is secure and Athos seems inordinately grateful to be here. He sinks down onto the sofa whilst Treville makes espresso which he then fortifies with cognac.

“Thank you,” says Athos, accepting the cup. He hooks a leg over the arm of the couch and stares into space.

Treville has never seen anyone more perfect than this broken down man. In the rays of sunshine his hair has an auburn tint to it which harmonises with the colour of his eyes. How has he never noticed this before?

“I should call Porthos,” says Athos. “He’ll be worried.”

“Relax first,” says Treville. “You need it.”

Athos looks up and engages that crooked grin. “Then stop pacing and sit,” he says, patting the cushion. “Distract me. Tell me about your life.”

Treville does so, taking the seat next to him and talking about his early years in Gascony, his time spent in the army and the sudden and frightening epiphany he’d had at twenty five.

“I suppose I’d been hiding my homosexuality, even from myself,” he says. “And then after a routine patrol went horribly wrong I came to the realisation that life was too short. I began to look around for someone like me. It was terrifying, but I had to do it. To know for sure that I was gay. Keeping things very much on the downlow, I started seeing one of the local lads. He loved me I think, but there was no room for feelings in a place like Kandahar.” He shrugs helplessly. “When the APV was hit and seven of us were badly injured it brought things to a sudden end.”

“God, that must have been horrific,” says Athos. He cups Treville's face the way he had done once before, but this time all that ugly arrogance is missing.

The kisses that follow are coffee flavoured and tinged with brandy, heated in a different way to their first few times. Limbs twist and lock into place and they remain this way for an age, mouths joined as they tease each other lazily, licking and sucking, parting for smoke breaks and then coming back together.

“We should go to bed,” says Athos eventually. His hand is inside Treville’s open fly, a cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth and he is the epitome of debauchery and ruin. 

“I’d love nothing more,” says Treville, directing Athos away from the wrong door with a chuckle of amusement. “That’s my study. Fucking on a desk is uncomfortable. We’ve tried it before.” 

Taking charge, he leads the way to the bedroom, extinguishing both cigarettes in a glass of water.

The bed has been made with the usual military precision, and Athos smirks, throwing himself backwards onto the mattress, deliberately untucking the sheets and rumpling the covers. “Once a soldier, always a soldier.” 

Treville proves his point, undressing and hanging his suit in the wardrobe, shirt and underwear going into the laundry basket. Naked as he is, with Athos fully clothed, he still feels that edge of dominance. Stroking his cock with languid self assurance he surveys his prey, eyes raking up and down in repeated movements. “Show me how much you want me.”

Supine, Athos struggles to rid himself of his clothes. He’s laughing, but there’s an underlying tremor of nerves about him which Treville finds most appealing.

“I’d like you to suck my cock now,” he says, laying his hand on Athos’ head. “Bare or condom. Your choice.”

“I want to taste you,” says Athos and he’s on his knees ready, lips wet and parted.

Treville holds his cock in one hand and traces the bow of Athos’ mouth, delighting in the silvery scar from the repaired cleft. Fluid leaks out, glossing Athos’ skin, and then slowly but surely he takes him in, letting him glide smoothly downwards until he’s in deep.

“Beautiful,” groans Treville, canting his hips and marvelling at the relief he gets from this. Threading his fingers into Athos’ hair, he rocks into him, using him for sex, safe in the knowledge that it is needed equally in return.

When it becomes too much he pulls back, panting and ignoring the devouring urge to fuck to completion. “You’re good,” he breathes. “Too good. My turn now.”

They change places and Treville smiles a private smile. He loves sucking cock, the smell, the taste, the feel of it entering him and taking over his senses. He chooses a different method to the one he has just experienced, planting delicate kisses over every inch of flesh, teasing Athos with an open mouth and lax jaw, laving each ball in turn and then licking a steady trail up his length.

“Please,” Athos gasps, voice rough, cock slick and urging entrance. “Oh god yes,” he moans as Treville rears up and goes down on him with immaculate precision. 

“Ohhhh.”

Treville gobbles him down, feeding from him and licking up every stray droplet. Athos tastes rich, of vintage champagne and oysters. It’s a luxury Treville will never afford and anger resurfaces momentarily. “On your knees,” he demands. 

Athos lies back, looking up at him, lazy and laughing. “Too tired,” he says and chooses the bed as a different venue for their games.

Anger retreats as Treville hardens further at the sight, hunkering down beside Athos, spreading his thighs and opening him up, enjoying the power as he searches out the key to his arousal.

“You’re going to kill me,” says Athos as he bears down on Treville's fingers, semi hard and moaning for more, squirming to get better contact. “I need something bigger.”

“How about four fingers?” Treville adds another. He imagines a fisting and has to force down the surge of come.

“How about you in me right now.” Athos cants his hips upwards and pulls at his erection. It’s full once more, thick and urgent. There is no disguising how much they want each other.

Treville shivers with excitement and as he's rubbering up he leans in close to kiss Athos softly on the lips. A quiet need grows and he shuffles across, planting himself with a muttering of satisfaction, absorbing every ounce of heat as they lie together and take pleasure in being here like this. 

Lifting his legs and wrapping them around Treville's torso, Athos deepens the kisses, his hands hunting out every secret pressure point until Treville can do nothing but slide back and push inside. Mouth to mouth contact ends abruptly as they gaze at each other, aware of the impact this has, and then they kiss again, bodies moving as one.

Treville sits back on his haunches, dragging Athos with him who locks a crooked elbow around his neck and returns to his mouth. This is the best of all worlds. He reaches for Athos’ cock, plays teasing games with it, gearing upwards to fast, setting the pace as they fuck and kiss to a mutual and truly outstanding climax. 

The simple act of curling an arm around another body is a newly discovered shot of joy. He presses a kiss in between Athos’ shoulder blades, smiles at the resultant rumble of happiness and succumbs to sleep.

The two men wake some hours later, when the light has gone and the world outside is quiet, joining together for more necessary kisses and touches which lead to a messy but delightful conclusion. This time Treville watches Athos return to sleep, enamoured of him in a way that he has never experienced before.

Sex happens again when the back streets of Cannes are waking up to a new day. Treville rouses Athos with myriad kisses to his lips, sliding downwards, once his lover is conscious and willing, in order to feast on him. Breathing in their combined scent he takes that cock deep into his throat, dragging a sleepy body over and on top of him until he is pleasantly suffocating beneath the weight. With Athos half awake and thrusting in legato waves between his lips Treville reaches downwards and wraps a hand around himself, sore from sex but urgent in his need. He comes first like this, his orgasm a burst of loud enjoyment that triggers Athos, who then finishes off deep in his gullet.

Returning to the pillows, Treville smiles and kisses Athos with a slow burn passion, sharing the flavour.

“I could spend every day in bed with you,” says Athos and his eyes are full of truth.

“I’ll make coffee,” says Treville before he admits to anything stupid. 

Leaving the room, he pads naked to the kitchen, not muscle honed like Athos but wiry rugged and criss-crossed with battle scars. His wounds are a source of pride and he will never be ashamed of them.

“You have a tattoo,” says Athos, joining him at the sink and letting his hands roam free.

Treville remembers deft fingers inking Arabic letters onto his skin and is not ready to describe that particular episode of his life. He has no way of knowing if Hakim is still alive. What they’d had was not love, but he had begun to care, very much indeed, and then he had been forced to turn off those feelings like a tap.

“Go and get showered,” he says. “I’ll bring the coffee through.” For some reason he is emotional and it makes him uncomfortable.

He sits for a while listening to the hiss of the percolator as he processes his thoughts. He may not have loved Hakim, but a part of him had wanted to. He doesn’t want to love Athos and yet he cannot help himself.

Dressed in yesterday’s rumpled clothes, Athos has an air of jaded elegance about him. He stands at the window absorbing the sunlight, feeding from its warmth and as yet unaware of Treville's presence. The touch on his shoulder alerts him and he turns a lazy half circle.

“Coffee’s on the table,” says Treville unable to resist a smile. He hasn’t smiled this much in years. “I’ll have my shower now.”

“Yes, Captain.” 

Athos salutes him and Treville wonders how he knows the correct rank, then remembers that the few pictures that decorate the walls of his apartment are reminders of his days in the military. The life that he once had.

A cloud of despondency descends. He does his best to wash it away, turning the temperature to the hottest he can tolerate, but the mood will not lift. He should be happy. He’s spent an entire night with Athos in his bed and yet the knowledge that it was a transitory experience sluices away any residual pleasure. For a fleeting few hours he was no longer lonely. He wants to belong to someone, however pathetic it might seem. He wants to belong to Athos.

They might be a mismatched pair, but they are good together and the realisation of this slowly lifts his spirits. Dried and dressed in casual clothes he is determined to prove this point to Athos and re-enters the living room only to find it empty.

The study door is open.

Treville closes his eyes to ward off the panic that is crawling up his spine. Taking a deep breath he steps inside, knowing what is in there but dreading it all the same.

“You’ve been stalking me,” states Athos bleakly. “For months. Almost a year.”

The pictures tell a story that cannot be denied.

There are so many now that Treville has them pinned up on boards -- a thousand images of Athos in a timeline of shame.

“I was surveilling you,” he says, hanging his head.

Athos strides across the room and stabs his finger at a photograph which was taken at the pony lines. “Not when you were here, damn you. You admitted as much. Unless you were lying and you’re still working for Anne.”

Treville is caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. He’s confused. Has his obsession driven him to forge these suspicions from out of nowhere?

“I promise I’ve not lied. For six months your wife paid me to observe you,” he says in a low voice. “This room is where I do my work. In the beginning you were nothing more than a job.” But this only accounts for half of the timeline and they both know it.

“Then where are the rest of your cases?” Athos leans on the wall, arms folded, staring intently at him with those curious green eyes.

Treville has occasionally been doing other observational work, but all of it has been forwarded on to his clients, the casebooks now closed. He lifts the lid on his laptop and brings up a folder. It is a poor comparison to the thousands of images that surround them.

“You’re in danger,” he states. He is almost certain of it.

Athos nods, the movement minuscule and quick. “From you.”

Treville is cut by this and words bleed out. “Not true,” he says, horrified by the thought. “I only want to keep you safe.”

“You have me here now,” says Athos. “Safe.” It sounds cruel when he says it. “What will you do if I leave?”

“I’ll let you go,” says Treville with a heavy heart.

 

\---

 

Click.

He cannot let Athos go. He keeps well hidden these days, watching from above in order to take his pictures. His prey seems sadder than ever, mortally wounded and bleeding out as Treville had done that fateful morning. It is this fact alone that keeps him on the trail. If Athos were happy living his playboy life then it would be easier to walk away, but instead he drinks himself into frequent comas, reliant more than ever on his friends.

It is purely by chance that Treville unearths the truth.

After so long his observation has become a routine. He sticks mostly to Athos’ favourite hangouts, the harbour cafés and plaza bars, lurking in dark corners, seeking out the higher ground of a sniper. It is on one of these occasions that he discovers Mme de la Fère with her new lover and this triggers a brand new set of investigations.

Click. Click.

Watching and listening pays off. Treville ascertains when their next rendezvous is to take place and is well prepared for them.

They meet at a discreet boutique hotel, designed to feel like a seventeenth century boarding house, Spartan chic, authentic save for the rats and bedbugs. 

Treville is good at his job, trained by the army to perform espionage at its highest level. Armed with a set of lockpicks he enters the room and sets up his own kind of bugs to record the evidence. 

Click. Click. Click.

 

\---

 

“You can fuck off right now, buster.” Porthos blocks Treville's passage with six and a half feet of pure muscle. He doesn’t bellow in his usual manner, but his words are all the more menacing for it. “Leave Athos alone. The last thing he needs right now is you on his tail.”

“I’m trying to help him,” says Treville, icy cool in his demeanour. He doesn’t know Porthos all that well and yet he instinctively likes him. He also trusts him to do the right thing. “I need five minutes to talk to him. You’re welcome to join us. In fact I’d prefer it if you were there.” He pauses and locks eyes with the big man. “Meet me in my office as soon as possible.”

Porthos rumbles out his discontent at the situation. “How am I supposed to know whether this is a trap or not? Aramis and I were searching the streets all night last time you did a runner with him. D'you know how fucking terrified we were when we tracked his mobile to that rubbish bin?”

Treville is repentant. He had honestly meant to remind Athos to call his friends, but they had become too distracted with each other to think about phone calls. “I apologise,” he says. “But the proof of my good intentions are right there, whatever you all might think. If I’d wanted to harm him I would have done so that night. This is serious, Porthos. I wouldn’t approach him if it wasn’t a matter of urgency.”

“Yeah well, that’s as maybe.” Porthos glowers at him. “Look, I’ll ask, but that’s the best I can do. He's a stubborn little fucker and he ain’t happy with you.”

“I understand,” says Treville. After all he was the one that screwed up. “But please tell him it’s important.”

He doesn’t wait around for Porthos to relay this information to Athos. They’ll either come or they won’t. The world turns on the toss of a coin.

Once again he paces his shabby little office, neatening papers and hanging trench coat and trilby on the hat stand beside the door. In the end his nerves get the better of him and he pours himself a large scotch, lighting an accompanying cigarette from a crumpled pack that he takes from the drawer. This is no kind of existence. He’s barely even alive.

There are footsteps on the corridor floor and he assesses the number of men approaching. Three he thinks at first, but his acute sense of hearing soon adds one to the number.

He is proved correct when the door opens and in walk Porthos and Aramis, Athos following a pace behind with d’Artagnan. The cell of a room becomes packed with bodies until the air inside is all but used up.

“I have no idea what this is about, but you have five minutes,” says Athos in a clipped tone. “Hopefully the last I will ever spend in your company.” 

Treville doesn't react and instead observes every detail. Athos is wary, unnerved by the situation, and his eyes are drawn to the whisky bottle on the table.

“Care for a drink?” He has just enough Scotch to go round, but only half the number of glasses necessary.

“We’d prefer it if you'd get on and tell us this information,” says Aramis, glancing at his watch. “We have a polo match this afternoon at the club.”

The man is intentionally referring to that first contact in St Tropez, goading Treville with an insolent stare, but he will not be drawn in. Picking up a manila folder he spreads out a fan of photographs on the table.

“Athos told me about your suspicions. The men you are targeting are my friends,” continues Aramis with a Latin wave of dismissal, not even deigning to glance at the pictures. “They’re both married, but are in love with each other.”

“I established that for myself,” says Treville. He has long since eliminated them from his watch list. They remain at the fringes of society for a reason. “This has nothing to do with them.”

The first set of photographs are of Milady de Winter, entering the Wren and ordering a martini at the bar.

“So my wife drinks alone,” says Athos with a fleeting look of wry amusement. “It seems we have something in common after all.”

“You do indeed,” says Treville and he glances at the faces gathered around him. One amongst them is decidedly apprehensive. “But it is not for the reason you suggest.”

He continues to expand upon the series of images until there is a sudden silence when in the next frame Milady is joined by d’Artagnan. 

“I bumped into her and we had a drink together,” says d’Artagnan, instantly on the defensive.

Treville stares at him. “She looked at her watch several times whilst she was alone and kept her eyes fixed on the door. She was clearly waiting for someone. When you entered the bar you walked straight up to her. This was an arranged meeting.”

He could expand on this. He could reveal that this was not the first time d’Artagnan and Milady had encountered each other in a hotel, but he hopes, for the young man’s sake, that he will not have to do so. There is something sad about the boy. A longing to be one of the beautiful people.

“She offered to fund my research,” says d'Artagnan, looking down. Ashamed that he has been found prostituting himself in the worst of ways. “The grant is not enough to live on.”

“Not with the lifestyle you choose to lead,” says Treville. “What did she want in return?”

“I don’t know,” says d’Artagnan. He’s lying and everyone knows it.

Treville stacks up the photographs and then lays out more -- a spread of tarot cards, divining the future. 

Milady and d’Artagnan are depicted taking to the stairs one at a time. They’re discreet, leaving a cushion of several minutes to allay suspicions. Whilst the evidence will not convince a jury, it is proof enough to Athos.

“You slept with my wife,” he says in a fierce voice, tempestuously rough.

“The men's room is on the first floor,” says d'Artagnan. “That is the only reason I went upstairs, Athos. You have to believe me.”

Once again, they all know he is being economical with the truth.

Click.

Treville selects a sound file on his computer. As it plays out the final damage is done. The wave loops back to the beginning and he stops it before it can cause any further pain. He can see from the pallor of Athos’ face that the truth has wounded him deeply.

Residual hurt ricochets around the room. The recording of their sex may be discomforting, but the words that come afterwards are the death knell.

_Kill Athos, d’Artagnan. That way we can be together always. We’ll be rich enough to live anywhere in the world. I know how much you envy him._

_I can’t. I won't do it._

_I’m disappointed in you. I thought you were more of a man than he is, but instead you're just a pathetic wannabe._

Milady de Winter is a clever and conniving woman, but she has misread the situation badly. D’Artagnan doesn't simply want to _be_ Athos -- he wants to be with him.

“You rotten little git,” says Porthos, rounding on the youngest member of their group. “We trusted you. Athos trusted you most of all and you betrayed him.”

“It doesn't matter,” says Athos in a weary voice. He perches on the edge of the desk and brings the photographs together into an untidy heap -- an attempt at closure perhaps.

“It does matter,” says Aramis, his hand on Athos’ shoulder. “But at least you have enough evidence here to convict her, especially if d'Artagnan stands as witness.”

“I’ll do it,” says d’Artagnan. “I’ll do anything you want.” He is repentant and sorrowful, but his pleading falls on deaf ears. Athos can’t yet bring himself to look at his young protégé.

Treville almost feels sorry for the boy. He is the only one in this room who can come close to understanding the depth of his feelings.

“I honestly couldn't cope with the attention that would bring,” says Athos. “A quick divorce is all I want. Anne will gain nothing from having me killed after that.”

“Are you so certain of that?” asks Aramis. “Your wife is a vindictive woman.”

“A threat of repercussions will keep Athos safe,” states Treville. That's all he wants. That's all he’s ever wanted from the start.

 

\---

 

Treville gains a measure of comfort from closing the case file on Athos de la Fère. He’s tired of eking out an existence in Cannes. His army pension will be enough to live on back in Gascony and he intends to spend the remainder of his days doing up the family farm that has fallen into disrepair over the years. He’s seen enough action to last a lifetime.

The office keys have been handed back to the management company and he has given notice on the apartment. His small and lonely world has been packed into boxes and now the place echoes with emptiness and reeks of cardboard.

One more week and he will be gone, leaving Cannes to the movie stars, playboys and paparazzi. They deserve one another.

The knock at the door is unexpected and it startles him. He is not acquainted with any of the other tenants in this building and is not expecting guests.

Glass in hand, he slides the chain into place and opens up an inch.

“Very security conscious, I must say,” says a familiar voice.

Treville smiles. It comes from deep within and brings with it a glow of contentment. It is a surprise to see Athos. A very welcome surprise.

“Once a soldier, always a soldier.” Treville puts his drink down on the hall table and opens the door fully. “It’s good to see you.”

Athos looks well, his suntan at full vibrancy without the greyness of alcohol acting against it. His eyes are clear and his lopsided grin is genuine with none of that habitual melancholy marring its edges.

“As of yesterday I’m a single man.” His eyes crinkle with delight. “I thought you might like to help me celebrate my freedom, seeing as you’re the cause of it.”

There’s no time for an answer. Treville willingly submits to kisses, breathing Athos in, licking at him, pulling him close, closer, close enough to climb inside and become a part of him. 

They stumble to the bedroom, avoiding the obstacle course of boxes along the way and falling into bed.

“I wanted to see you,” says Athos, unbuttoning Treville's shirt with trembling hands. “But I needed to make sure my divorce was finalised first. Even so I was sure she’d find out and use you against me.”

“Not a chance in hell,” declares Treville, humming with pent up pleasure as Athos licks a path across his chest from nipple to nipple and then detouring downwards. He takes a slight offence to Athos’ words. Milady de Winter may be a cunning creature, but he is by far the cleverer of the two and would never allow himself to be used by her, especially with Athos as the stake in the game. He has, however, no intention of letting this minor irritation spoil their reunion, although there is still one remaining truth that needs to be told.

“You were right,” he confesses as Athos unbuckles his belt and presses kisses to his clothed cock. “You were my obsession. You still are.”

“I should hope so,” says Athos, looking up at him, full of life. “Although I prefer to call it love.”

Again there is no time for words as by now Athos has undone Treville's trousers, freed him from his clothing and is going down on him with that perfect cocksucker mouth of his.

“Not yet,” begs Treville when his hips judder and his vision begins to blur.

He pulls at Athos, hauls him to eye level and peppers his face with kisses. “I’ve never been in love before,” he says with a hint of amusement. “I have no idea of the protocol.”

“You’re doing perfectly well so far,” says Athos. They kiss again, push bodies together, locking limbs in the need for greater contact. “We should fuck to seal the deal.”

Clothes come off an item at a time as they kiss-talk-touch to a slow burn frenzy. The build up is too good and before long sex takes over with Athos on his knees and Treville having him in every way, palm resting possessively on the small of his back, bare cock inside and spare hand reaching around. Fingers entwined, they bring him off together with Treville finishing a close second in a series of splendid thrusts.

“God I needed that,” smiles Athos as he sprawls spent across Treville's chest. 

He’s a state -- messy, sweaty and utterly delicious.

“Aren’t you going to thank me?” Treville remembers the aftermath of their first time together which included a very definite dismissal.

So, it appears, does Athos. “No,” he says shaking his head. “Not until I’m finished with you.”

“And is that likely to happen anytime soon?” Contrary to these cautious words Treville is remarkably sure of himself and he strokes a hand across Athos’ hair. This love thing is new to him. Unimaginably beautiful.

“I’ll give you notice.” Athos leans up on an elbow. “As it seems you have done with your apartment.”

Treville nods, solemn now, unnerved by their close call. “We almost missed each other,” he says. “A detective’s life is not for me, Athos. I’m tired of existing at the periphery.”

“From now on you’ll be the centre of my world,” declares Athos and his eyes tell no tales. “Ninon has finished in South America. She’s coming back to France to run the business and I’m going to Africa for a year or so. Would you like to come with me?”

Treville frowns. He can’t imagine anything worse than being a millionaire's plaything.

“Our company will be advertising for a head of security,” continues Athos. “No one could be better qualified for the job.”

Treville doesn’t like to bang on about destiny, kismet or other such nonsense, but he has the strangest feeling that fate is on their side.

“I do feel a definite desire to keep you safe at all times,” he says.

A slow smile appears on Athos’ face. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” confirms Treville.

“And do you have any other desires which need firming up?”

“Sleeping with the boss is my only condition.”

“One which I insist we fulfil as often as possible,” says Athos and he’s already making good on this, sucking patterns of bruises onto the tender skin of Treville’s neck.

 

\---

 

“I wish there were still tramp steamers,” says Athos as he settles into Treville's arms after a strenuous afternoon of sex in their luxury suite at the Voyager hotel in Mombasa. “Aeroplanes make the world seem so small.”

Treville basks in the wonders of air conditioning and cannot imagine anything worse than being holed up for months on a rickety old ship, even with Athos as a cabin mate. “You’re an idiot,” he says affectionately. “We’d have killed each other after a couple of weeks.”

They _are_ prone to argument -- storms which are ferocious yet fleeting.

Athos turns and traces the inked letters on Treville's hip. “Did you ever fight with Hakim?” he asks.

“Did you ever fight with your professor?” says Treville, neatly avoiding the question.

Under the spell of a whisky bottle they’ve exchanged painful histories. It will never be easy for Treville to let go of everything, but in Athos he has found someone that he can trust implicitly and he knows that the feeling is reciprocated.

“I was too anxious to contradict Charles on anything,” admits Athos. “I was always seeking his approval. It was the same with Anne. With you I can finally be myself. I’m afraid you’ve been landed with the real me, warts and all.”

For a while, years perhaps, Treville has had a growing need for someone to share his life. A few temper tantrums only add to the extraordinary fire he feels for this man.

“I never knew Hakim well enough to argue with him,” he reveals. “We were both so terrified of being discovered that to begin with we did little more than fuck and run. My job was dangerous, but he was dicing with death just by sleeping with me. We’d been together a few months, slowly growing closer, and I was on the verge of falling for him when the personnel carrier was hit and I was medevaced out.”

Athos is so still on the bed that Treville wonders whether he has fallen asleep, however quiet words prove otherwise.

“We could go to Afghanistan. You could try and contact him.”

Athos’ voice is calm, but Treville knows how impossibly difficult this must be for him. He is a kind and courageous man for offering to do such a thing.

“I don’t want Hakim,” he says with a slow shake of the head. “I love you, Athos. Only ever you.”

“I love you too.” Athos’ words are a pent up sigh of relief and the minute they are released he relaxes back into Treville’s arms.

Their tour of Africa is not only an exploration of a continent, but also a journey of discovery in other more personal ways. As they move from country to country Treville grows increasingly content, proud of Athos as he bargains hard with the dealers and yet offers vastly inflated sums of money to the village leaders. Theirs is a good life and they are doing good things with it.

There is a surprise on the cards when they reach Casablanca. As they check in to the hotel, the young receptionist advises them that a party of gentlemen is waiting for them in the lounge.

“Of all the bars,” chuckles Aramis, whilst Porthos wastes no time on words and instead throws himself at Athos, engulfing him in a gargantuan embrace.

“Couldn't let you two have all the fun,” he growls.

Treville observes from a distance, noting the way that d’Artagnan stands aside, unsure of himself, and how Athos brings him back into the fold with a kiss and a few kind words. He is then pleasantly surprised when Aramis and Porthos move the welcome party onwards to him.

“You’re doing a fine job of looking after him, mon ami,” says Aramis, shaking him by the hand. “He looks like a tom cat with access to all the cream he could ever swallow.”

“I hate your bloody innuendos,” complains Porthos. “Don't mind him,” he says to Treville. “He’s just jealous.”

Aramis’ eyes open wide. “My love life is highly satisfactory,” he replies. “Shame the same can’t be said about yours.”

“Gentlemen,” berates Athos, silencing them with a look. “Shall we have a drink to celebrate?”

With a growing sense of belonging Treville calls the waiter over, safe in the knowledge that he is a part of the team now. They may be beautiful but they are not the elite he had once believed them to be.

As drinks are being served the receptionist comes over to speak to them. Her name badge declares her to be Constance Bonacieux, head of housekeeping. “Your luggage has been taken up to your suite,” she says with a warm smile. “You all look so happy to be reunited. I should take a photo of you for posterity.”

Treville hands over his camera and wraps his arms around Athos and Aramis, the taller members of their party bookending the group shot.

“That’s lovely,” says Constance as she peers through the viewfinder. “Now say cheese.”

Click.


End file.
